


Scars Healed

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Scars and Care, bedannibalprompts, from Florence to Castle Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 19:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13441299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Hannibal had never feared death and he was even less likely to give any thought to the scars, merely a proof of a game finally becoming interesting enough for him.





	Scars Healed

_“I thought Mr. Graham was finally going to be the patient who cost you your life.”_

He remembered her words well, carefully placed in the vastest of all the rooms in his memory palace, echoing alongside the others against the grand fresco walls, with lustrous chandeliers on the ceiling, sparkling with sapphires and diamonds, just like her eyes. Every sentence that she had ever spoken could be found there, meticulously preserved like the most priceless art. He liked to revisit them as often as the image of the lush lips that had uttered them.

But he never given that statement much contemplation, not even when he was struggling for balance, hot blood dripping from his wrists in a constant string of scarlet beads, blending with water and being washed away bit by bit, showing just how incidental of a substance it was.

Hannibal had never feared death and he was even less likely to give any thought to the scars, merely a proof of a game finally becoming interesting enough for him. They were people expressing their sympathies, of course, eyes trying not to stare, words meant to comfort. He accepted them all with a false gratitude, his person suit more intact than his body, while dismissing the sentiments completely. He knew the compassion would end the moment they looked beneath his veil. And he was right.

It wasn’t until Europe, when he saw Bedelia’s eyes following the lines on his forearms, her gaze becoming sterner and sorrowful, that he became aware of them. She did not utter a word, but her eyes spoke volumes. Her stare was nothing like the ones he was used to; it was worried, sad. _Real_. For the first time in his life, Hannibal realised that he had hurt more than himself. His own eyes dropped, overpowered with emotions, suddenly unable to face the only person who had ever cared for him.

At times, in the quiet of the night and the peaceful bliss of their bedroom, she would trace the scars, her fingertips so gentle and her touch more tender than usual. Hannibal thought she did it subconsciously as if pondering his recklessness and wanting to mend its visible effects as she couldn’t curb it in time. Or perhaps she looked at the wounds with a doctor’s eye, knowing she could have stitched them better.

She got a chance to do just that as his impulsiveness raised its impatient head once more and left him more battered than ever. He did not expect her to still be there, as he set fire to their paradise and walked back to witness its ashes, but she was. She always was. And she tended to him like no one could. He felt his heart slowly coming apart, as she washed the blood off his skin; another wound altogether, a deep splash of crimson soaring under his skin. The rush was gone and as the red haze dispersed from his eyes, he saw only her. The only thing that was left was regret, planting its roots so deeply within his fractured core that no room in a memory palace, no matter how spacious, could ever ease its hurt. Still, he was memorising every speck of her as she carefully sutured his wound.

Under the naked and intrusive light of his cell, Hannibal examined his leg at great lengths. The scar was barely visible; even without her expert aftercare in removing them, the stitches were immaculate and left no trace. He tried to discern the line, remembering not the pain, but the warm touch of her fingers. If he could somehow open the wound, would that make her miraculously appear to mend it once more? He chastised himself for such indulgent fantasies in a place completely devoid of dreams.  

And he would not blame her if she chose never to care for him again. Hannibal felt a sharp stab in his chest which had nothing to do with physical pain. He felt sudden anger; it was an emotion he was familiar with, but this time he was angry at himself. That was an unknown sensation which left his mind stunned and unable to reason. He would retreat to the depths of his memory palace instead, where he could see her, even if it was nothing more than an echo.

Hannibal was never one to admit to a fault, but he could not be happier to be mistaken then. Suspended half way between life and death, he was drawn to her with the last seeds of hope, lingering deep in his barren heart, waiting patiently to be nourished. He was desperately clinging to life for the first time ever, wanting nothing more that to see her again. And she was still there, waiting.

As he once more surrendered to her care, his wounds felt insignificant, unworthy of her attention. He knew he would not let her leave this time. He lost everything once, he wasn’t going to lose it again.

Now, as the last rays of the spring sun brush over the shelved walls of their library, Bedelia gently cradles his cheek while her lips caress his skin. She always kisses the same spot at the end, the scar on his right cheek, her mouth lingering softy, and it always makes him blush unexpectedly. He feels utterly undone under her tender touch. Under her tender care that has never faltered.

She looks at him warmly, eyes shining with affection, and with the final stroke of her fingers on his jawline, she exits the room and leaves Hannibal with a warm sensation of her lips and a loud beating in his chest. His heart is whole once more, not a single crack remains, the old weeds of regret replaced by fresh flowers of love planted by Bedelia. And he intends to keep them growing and blooming for the rest of their lives.

Later, as the night covers the grounds around the castle in a quiet blanket of dark, he waits for her in bed. He does not want to fall asleep without her next to him. She finally joins him, slipping the robe off her bare shoulders and slipping under the covers, close to him. Her hand slowly touches his chest, nimble fingers trailing through his chest hair, and her head soon follows.

They still gravitate towards each other every night. Their bodies starved for the feel of each other’s skin over the years of separation, do not want to let go now.

Bedelia sighs quietly as her head finds her nook on his chest. Hannibal smiles and wraps his arm around her, closing his eyes and enjoying the serenity. Soon, as she drifts away, her even breaths softly caressing his skin, her hand moves to rest on his side. Her fingers gently cover the barely visible trace of the wound, one she sutured as well as the ones before, as if she is ensuring no one will damage it while she sleeps.

Hannibal’s arms wrap tighter around her. He would do anything to keep her from harm, yet, while he is the one holding her, it feels like she is the one protecting him. _She always was._

As sleep slowly claims him, Hannibal’s last thought is that the wounds were worth having, just to have her touch him this way.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this odd idea and I decided to run with it. People don't talk enough (or at all) about the fact that Bedelia is the only person who really cares about Hannibal, quite literally; her stitching him up in "Dolce" spoke volumes. Every time I saw Hannibal's cheek scar in s3.5, I imagined Bedelia kissing it tenderly; this is how this fic started.


End file.
